In Memorium
by Sythar
Summary: A prequel to the oneshot 'The Graveyard'. Valjean pays his respects and muses on Javert's death and the past.
1. Of Cats, Children, and Consciences

Disclaimer: I don't own Les Miserables or any of the characters.

The streets were almost empty, a few people wandering quietly about their business in the cooling afternoon. Every now and again, a child or two would dash helter-skelter over the cobbles, laughing and yelling, as children do everywhere. The shadows were cool, the air held in it the warm breath of spring, and life was blossoming. Even in the dusty greyness of the Rue de l'homme Arme.  
It was, prehaps, just a little after three o'clock in the afternoon. A boy was poking disinterestedly around in a sack he had found, and two others were playing with a cat.  
At least, they thought they were playing. The cat seemed to be of a different opinion. Perhaps he didn't like their smell, for he was making enough noise to rival a perferctly respectable pig. This, of course, made the boys laugh.  
Near the dingier side of the street, a door opened. It was a blue-ish sort of door, rather cracked. A number hung crookedly, like a last-minute thought... in some lights, if you turned your head at just the right angle, it would look like a seven.  
Slowly, an elderly gentleman, dressed all in black, came out of the house and shut the door softly behind him. His name was Fauchelevant. However, if you had asked him nicely, he might have been more inclined to tell you his real name, Valjean. He had become less self-protective of late. An air had settled over his shoulders, like a rather big and musty overcoat... the air of a man who has suddenly realised that he doesn't much care what happens to him anymore.  
He wore it well.  
Valjean walked slowly down the steps and onto the street. He tried to walk a little more carefully now. His back was not getting any better, and his right leg had never been quite right ever since that terrible time in the sewers. It ached dreadfully in the cold... but Valjean found that he was beginning to get used to it. Nevertheless, it wouldn't do to fall apart completely.  
The cat yowled again, a really high-pitched shriek of a noise, calculated to do as much damage to young eardrums as was possible. Cats are, as anyone can tell you, vindictive creatures.  
Valjean paused, and rested his weight on the large, thick stick he carried with him. Dark brown eyes surveyed the situation for a beat of time. "You know, that's not the best way to treat a cat."  
In most circumstances, the gamins would barely have deigned to glance up for such a remark. But there was something, perhaps a note of less-than-gentle threat hovering in the background somewhere. They paused in their game and peered at him, looking for all the world like two ragged seagulls hovering over some bright and shiny treasure.  
The similarity was strong. Valjean didn't like seagulls. They always reminded him of the sea. He had never liked the sea, not since Toulon. But then - Valjean took a step forwards and cleared his throat - Valjean had never really liked children either. "How about you two run along...?" Just in time, he stopped himself from adding 'and leave the poor thing alone'. Nothing would have been more likely to goad the boys into rebelliousness.  
The tallest, a brown-skinned little fellow wearing a bright green - something - and a cap that had almost split into two halves, grinned. "And leave you to have all the fun? Not likely."  
The smaller, obviously more over-awed, scrunched up his face and grunted something that could have been agreement.  
Very pondorously, Valjean stretched himself to his full height, and expanded his chest for good measure. "I see." He added a deep rumble to his voice, and was rather pleased to see both lads shrink back slightly. Hah! He still had it.  
It was at this moment that his conscience decided to make a tardy entrance. How, it asked in silvery-sweet tones, could Valjean explain bullying two such sweet little boys? What was the High Father going to say about this?  
Sweet? Valjean asked snidely, keeping a gimlet eye on the lads in case they decided to run off with what he now thought of as _his_ cat. Anyway, they started it.  
And... Conscience continued, not in the least fazed. They're young and poor, and probably starving. And I think that older one looks a bit like Petit-Gervais...  
Valjean groaned. You're never going to let me forget that, are you? He sighed and stuck one hand into his pocket, already feeling the first pangs of guilt. "You know," he said. "I'm looking for a cat. How about you two give that one to me, and I'll give you a couple of sous."  
The two gamin exchanged an eloquent look. The look said that if the crazy old gentleman was going to pay them for doing something he could easily force them to do, then he was a fool. And he could, therefore, be cheated with impunity.  
Valjean had not lived in Paris for so long without being able to tell what was going to happen next. He sighed again. One of these days, he was really going to have to find somewhere where there were no children.

"Damn!" Valjean sucked furiously at his hand. He had finally parted with two francs for the cat, an exorbitant and completely ridiculous sum, and the boys had disappeared with all the swiftness of two evil little demons. He could have sworn they had horns, but his conscience hadn't seemed to agree. Then he had tried to take the cat home, intending to keep it for company after all the trouble he had gone to for it, and the ungrateful furball had scratched him!Now, to top it off, he was going to be late.  
Valjean quickened his steps, hurrying out towards the Rue de Temple as quickly as he could. He didn't particularly like the Rue de Temple. It was too big, and full of people and shops and normal things which he had always seen, but never quite been able to touch. Still, it was the quickest route and he was not as nervous about crowds as he once had been.  
As he turned the corner, Valjean slowed his pace a little, and felt his shoulders hunching automatically. Amazing. It had become instinct itself for him to blend in, to become inconspicuous. Always slightly in the shadows, always looking down. Always shying away from anything too sudden and threatening.  
Valjean started, and glanced up quickly. That colour... A policeman! Only half realising what he was doing, Valjean slowed down and peered intently across the road. The snap of thick cloth, the quick step and rigid shoulders. So familiar. Then the man's head turned, a thick blob of nose, fat lips, and a moustache that lay across his mouth like a dead caterpillar.  
It was a shock, like a slap of cold water to the face. Valjean realised that he had been expecting someone quite different. What, am I still looking? he wondered, beginning to walk again. Even after all this time? He shook his head at himself. Every time he saw a policeman, it was the same thing. When would he ever learn?  
By the time he was half-way up the Avenue de la Republique, Valjean had decided that he was a doddery old fool, and what is worse, a delusional doddery old fool with a conscience that had stronger willpower and a most un-gracious dislike for children. And cats. And all those evil words he'd said this morning when that cat had scratched him would now have to be repeated to a priest.  
So he was a delusional sinful doddery old fool who halucinated policemen. Wonderful.  
"Ah, Cosette," he murmured. "You were well rid of me, really." It was a joke at the start, but by the end of his last consonant, it wasn't a joke anymore. He huffed slightly, and drew his coat closer about him, wondering why the sky had suddenly grown so dim.  
He was nearly there, now. Just down the Boulevard de Menilmontant and around the Rue de Repos...  
There. The big imposing grey stone gates. Huge and majestic. Frightening. Valjean hated them, as he hated anything that reminded him of a cage. This place, this dark place with its segregation and its huge monuments to power and wealth... he didn't like it. He'd be damned if he was going to be buried anywhere near the tombs of the rich.  
As Valjean walked into the cemetery of Pere Lachaise, he shuddered a little. No matter how often he came here, he would never get used to the feeling of death. But he had to come, as often as he was able for as long as he was able. It was, after all, only fair.

Author's Note: This is a prequel to 'The Graveyard'. I wasn't originally intending it to be anything more than a one-shot, but I started wondering exactly what had happened before Valjean died. And I realised that Victor Hugo cheats us of two extremely important scenes in his book. What did Valjean do when Javert never returned, and what did he think when he read the account of Javert's death in the Monituer?


	2. A Cherub and A Grave

Bonjour. I don't own Les Miserables. Do I look like a male nineteenth century french writer to you?

xxxxxx

Valjean walked quickly past the looming stone tombs and silent grim angels. Why did they all seem to be staring at him?

Suddenly, he was reminded of a dream, long ago. All the men with the faces like earth, all watching him. At the time, they had seemed like policemen, like The Inspector in all his judicial glory. Yet now... now the eyes of the statues had that same look, and earth had hardened to stone. Granite. Marble.

He shivered, and hurried on before his imagination could start to give the angels another face, and colder, more piercing eyes.

As the path twisted its way down a slope, the graves became smaller and less grand. Cherubim with tiny wings and mischevious smiles replaced the imposing grimness of the enormous beautiful angels. Humanity returned.

Valjean couldn't help thinking of the graves as reflections of the people who had come before them. The large tombs reminded him of so many rich, cold, empty people living in rich, cold, empty houses. But the smaller graves, the older and more careworn graves with their cracks and their little bunches of dying flowers, and their sprigs of greenery growing out of the stone?

Those _stones_ had more humanity than all the wealthy, pompous...

He stopped by a particularly cheeky looking cherub. It twinkled up at him, head cocked on one side and bow clutched protectively to itself as though it was afraid a larger angel would come and take it away. A memory stirred, a small boy from that terrible night at the barricades. A tattered little scrap of a boy, with more youth and life pressed into his eyes than had graced all the ranks of students fighting so solemnly beside him. Valjean closed his eyes, almost hearing a voice, young and robust and wickedly cheerful...

_I'm nothing but a sparrow_

_All because of Rousseau_

He sighed, and opened his eyes. The cherub looked at him, and for a moment he saw a hint of a large cloth cap drooping over its face. Then he shook his head and moved on, not wanting to hear the voice trail out into eternal darkness. Not again.

Finally the paving and statues broke up in favour of patches of green and trees. This was where Valjean felt more at home... if he could feel at home in a graveyard. This was where he would like to be burried, free without the concrete pressing over his head. Free to feel the warmth of the earth above him, and maybe to hear the birds in the trees...

He had spent far too much of his life within stone walls. He'd be damned if he'd spend death like that too.

Valjean bit back a smile. The chances were that he was damned either way.

The grave he wanted was in a corner, sheltered by a large tree. There was a stump conveniently place in front of it, and Valjean lowered himself with some care and not a little groaning. For a moment, he rested, massaging his eyes. Then he nodded.

"My apologies for being late, Inspector."

The gravestone was a simple one, just a slab of stone with 'Javert, Inspector First Class' inscribed on it. There was no first name and no birth date. Valjean had felt curiously unsurprised when he had first seen it. Javert had always seemed ... he didn't know... rather like he had had been born sporting sideburns and carrying a nightstick. If a person had walked up to Valjean in the street and asked, 'What is Javert's first name?' he would have answered, 'Inspector.'

Valjean shook his head slowly. Sad, really. They had known each other for a long time, and he had known less about the Inspector, even when they were in Montreiul, than he had known about even the most prosperous Grande Dames. And he had avoided those ladies like the plague.

Valjean dug his fingers slowly through the grass near his feet. "Who were you, my friend?" He stopped, and smiled slightly, imagining what the inspector's reaction would have been if he had ever called him 'friend' in life. He could see it, the lowering dark brows, the sudden pinching of the nostrils, the wide mouth twisting into a grimace of distaste.

"Ah." Valjean chuckled. It had always been a little fun to try to annoy Javert. Rather like a mouse playing a trick on the cat that chased it. Best of all, his conscience had never seen fit to complain. "Were we ever friends? Strange, really. That I should be the last to come here, and talk. Would you have minded, I wonder."

Hah. He could practically _hear_ the snort. One of the lower branches of the tree rustled fretfully, dragging Valjean's attention to it for a moment. After all, there was no breeze today.

_Would_ the Inspector have minded? Valjean rested his chin on one palm and thought about it. At least he could think out here. There were none of the... memories that hung around his house. The scent of her favorite powders, the fabric that she chose for the curtains, the chair that she used to sit in on the afternoons...

Damn.

Valjean coughed a little and hastily brushed at his eyes. "Pardon, M'sieur." Then he smiled humourlessly at himself. Why was he apologising to the dead? He truly _was_ a few students short of a revolution.

I suppose, he thought. It's because it's so hard to remember he is dead. The inspector had seemed indestructable. Like some sort of avenging angel meeting out justice with a flaming sword. And then suddenly he wasn't there. Valjean truly felt as though any second he'd see the tall, straight figure stalk out of some shadow and march down the street. It was all a trick, Valjean. You didn't think I'd die and leave you at liberty, did you?

"God." Valjean rubbed at his eyes again. Those first few days... when he was still waiting for Javert to return... they had been hell.


	3. Polishing Silver Handcuffs

He closed his eyes. Just thinking about it brought it all back. He could practically smell the sewer on his clothes again...  
The tree creaked softly as Valjean's mind drifted back over days and months, into the past.

xxxx

Valjean gripped at the old iron ballustrade until his knuckles went white with the strain. The street couldn't be empty. It was impossible. Javert had said he would wait, therefore Javert must be there.  
Had he stepped into a shadow to shelter from the cold? Was he waiting in the doorway? Was he following up the stairs...?  
Valjean's eyes darted feverishly around, searching the bits and peices of Paris outside the window for a glimpse of the all too familiar figure. Beneath his fingers, the iron began to bend.  
Never, no never, would Javert let something drag him away from the chase. Not a chase this old and bitter. He pressed forwards again, pushing himself against the window and nearly cracking the pane in his efforts to see what wasn't there. What wasn't there but _had_ to be there.  
Below the window the pavement lay in lightening patches of stone and shadow. Houses were holding their breaths in fear of governmental retribution, and every lantern sported a black eye. There were few nooks in the old street for even the smallest gamin to hide, let alone Javert. Unless... for just a second, Valjean's over-taxed and weary brain qualified Javert with every magical and superstitious power under the sun. Had he turned invisible? Shrunk to half his normal size? Disappeared in a puff of blue coloured snuff scented smoke?  
"Papa?"  
Light footsteps pattered to the top of the stairs. She sounded so sad, pauvre petite. Valjean's heart skipped a beat. After all, what news did he have for his Cosette? Her Marius-boy dying in his grandfather's house and her father waiting at the mercy of a spectre of justice?  
With a fierce, sudden twist of his hands, Jean Valjean snapped the ballustrade in two. Merde. Not even Javert was cruel enough to arrest him before Cosette's own dear eyes, was he? Those bewildered innocent blue eyes... brimming with tears...  
"Papa?"  
She was coming down. She mustn't come down!  
"Cosette. It's all right, my dear. I'll be up in a little while." Not quite his usual calm tones, but it would do for a start. At that moment, he felt a rush of all the old emotions come tumbling back into him like someone had opened a window and let in a storm. A small, unhappy piece of himself shuddered away from the raw hatred, the raging anger and bitterness boiling through the Jean-that-had-been.  
But the rest of him... He was consumed once again with the urge of the tiger protecting his lamb. At that moment he knew with cold certainty that he would kill, steal, break every one of God's holy laws three times over to protect Cosette's happiness.  
It frightened him more than anything had ever frightened him before. 

xxxx

"If you had come... then..." Valjean shook his head slowly. "Even you, Inspector. You would have died."  
A breath of invisible wind moved something in the tree, an oddly amused noise, as though God's nature was sharing a joke against him. Valjean raised one eyebrow at the gravestone.  
"Ah, you laugh, is that it? But you should know what I am capable of. You over all men." The muscles in the old man's shoulders flexed and bulged. Again, he could picture Javert in his mind, smiling ever so slightly. _And you know what I am capable of, too.  
_Was this what remembering did to him? He was conversing happily with a dead man. Why couldn't Cosette appear in a shower of rose-petals? Or bird-song? Javert, Javert, Javert. Valjean felt himself consumed with an irrational surge of pique. Always Javert!  
_Well..._ his conscience put in, fairly. _You **are** the one sitting at his graveside...  
_I'll be damned if I will again, Valjean thought grimly. It's far too unhealthy. At _my_ age...  
_What?_ His conscience suddenly sounded more ironic than usual. _Senile already?  
_Valjean thought seriously about leaping to his feet and striding away. It wasn't **fair**. If he had to hallucinate, why couldn't he hallucinate something that would make him happy? However, his knees pointed out, they weren't feeling up to much leaping and striding these days. They might possibly be able to manage a slow stagger and potter, but they'd prefer a little more warning before-hand.  
So. Even my own body fails me!  
This thought sounded so melodramatic, even in his head, that Valjean smiled. The smile became a grin, the grin became a chuckle. "I suppose you also know that I have suddenly and bizarrely become a doddery old man." His chuckles faded a little, and he sighed, hunching his shoulders. "A doddery old man with not much longer to live, I'm afraid." He knew that, though he didn't let himself think it too loudly. The wind and the tree seemed to know it as well, because they maintained a respectfully uncomfortable silence. It was surprisingly easy to live, knowing that you would die soon. It took a lot of the suspense out of life. Valjean had lived with more than enough suspense.  
Yet, it would be hard... to die alone.  
"I truly thought you were coming back. You never _lied_, my friend. I thought I could trust you, at least." There was a definite note of accusation in his voice. It was almost amusing, considering the circumstances. "You know," he laughed once, rather sharply. "I thought that you were going to get more men. Make the big arrest in style, as it were."  
A few leaves that had settled on the grave were blown off, and Valjean felt himself imagining a note of restlessness in the sudden tidiness.  
He shrugged, a little apologetically. "I was tired out. Maybe I was over-reacting a little."

xxxxx

A nineteenth century writer, would have probably said that Valjean was in a state of great mental anxiety. That his mind and his soul quarelled with the minutes and his head was heavy with the strain of his warring thoughts. They would have pointed out how he paced, a sure sign that one was laboring under a great mental burden. Morover, his brow was fevered, and the few remaining silver hairs on his head were miraculously turning white! No doubt the torment was a further trial sent to test the great heart of this modest and compassionate man.  
If Valjean had been asked, _he_ would have said that he was bloody confused and left it at that.  
He had waited near the little window, watching the street for so long, that Cosette had finally disobeyed his paternal injunctions to stay upstairs and had come down to see if he was all right. Once she was there, he had felt both more at ease and more miserable. He should never have asked Javert for a chance to say goodbye. It was too hard, to see her and to let her go. He didn't think, back then, that he had the strength.  
She had exclaimed over the state of his clothes, had bustled him into a bath with every sign of horrified satisfaction, and had insisted upon 'fixing him up something hot'.  
It was five hours later, and Valjean's stomach still hadn't settled. Much as he hated to admit to any defects in his daughter's accomplishments... she was not a cook.  
Fitfully, he turned at the end of the room and paced back towards to bureau. Ah, his back hurt. And his feet hurt. He was so tired...  
But he couldn't sleep. It didn't help being full of the heaviest soufle ever created on God's good earth.  
Valjean winced, and picked a piece of twig-like vegetation out of his teeth. He wouldn't have been able to sleep anyway. Every instinct he had, all the urges born of caution, the urges that caused him to start at shadows, that made him uneasy taking off his shirt... every well-trained nerve was screaming at him to run.  
Escape! They shouted. He's made a mistake, he's let you loose!  
_But you promised..._ his Conscience protested.  
To hell with the promise. Instinct said, poking a mental finger at Valjean. It's your chance. Just think, across country and then to England... not even _he_ would follow you there. You don't owe him _anything_. Not after what he's done to you!  
_And what about his help with the Marius-boy? What about Cosette?  
_Round and round and round again. Instinct warred with Conscience while Logic sat in a corner and gibbered. Why wasn't Javert back? What was he doing? Worst of all, when was he going to strike??  
Ideas swirled in a maelstrom. Javert had been sidetracked by some of the insurgents. Javert was gathering troops of soldiers as security. Javert was polishing off a special pair of silver handcuffs reserved for the occasion. Javert had fallen and broken his leg while... waiting outside... and had been spirited away to hospital, still complaining that his doctors were perverting the course of justice.  
Or, Valjean grimaced glumly, maybe after all Javert was actually feeling a little guilty? God knows, even Javert must find it odd to be on the brink of arresting the man who had saved his life not many hours before. Maybe, Valjean rubbed at his aching head gingerly. Maybe Javert was hoping he would run so that the policeman could feel justified in chasing him...  
Righteous anger flooded Valjean. Well, if that were the case, then Javert could wait until hell itself froze over. He would be damned if he'd give the man the pleasure of assuaging his conscience. Let him live with the guilt, if he feels any, Valjean thought fiercely. I'll stay here until I rot!  
As though awaiting just such a decision, his legs finally gave out, and Valjean sank to the floor in a faint.

xxxxx

"I waited, you know. Many days, I waited." Valjean's chin was settled comfortably in his hands as he stared out into the distance. "I think I'd have gone mad if it hadn't been that Cosette -" As usual, her name brought a sudden stabbing pain, and he stopped and fell silent.  
There was a pause, during which a few droplets of water spilled onto the ground, watering a patch of flowers just waking up for spring. Valjean shook his head manfully, and coughed, to clear the lump from his throat.  
"I think I would still be waiting if...Cosette...hadn't mentioned that policemen had been atacked after the barricades, even policemen walking together near the Prefecture." He smiled at the memory of her shock as he had grabbed for his hat and coat and whisked from the house. "I don't know what I thought I would find. I don't know what I'd have done if I'd actually found _you_... "  
He had thought he'd found the answer to the mystery. Valjean remembered his frenetic pacing up and down the streets, in and out of hospitals, around in ever increasing circles... He had been worried, he recognised that now. At the time, all he had been thinking was that he _had_ to know what had happened.  
Strage, really. For the first time in many years, he had been the hunter chasing after Javert. How often had he prayed in the past that the Good Lord would see fit to remove Javert from his life? How often had he planned all the things he would be able to do, all the freedom he'd have?  
Valjean chuckled at himself softly. "How foolish people can be, am I not right, my friend?"  
The tree rustled an amused agreement. Javert, too, would have agreed. Valjean had always had the feeling that Javert had watched the world from a distance, marvelling at the stupidity of mankind, and laughing behind his hand.  
It had often been irritating. Much like the man's infuriating manner of slipping into the dullest, driest, most boring official language whenever 'Madeleine' came to bother him in his office. Valjean had always ended up leaving quickly, wondering if any living being could truly be that law-bound, or if it were simply a game being carried out for the Inspector's amusement.  
Considering how he had often seemed to hear a sound suspiciously like laughter following him down the street...  
"And possibly, we two were the most foolish of all," Valjean said softly. "I, for not seeing what I was doing. You, for..." It seemed both churlish and cruel to utter the word 'suicide' aloud, so Valjean merely let the meaning of his silence hang in the air like a brick.


	4. Onions and Potatoes

CHAPTER FOUR

M'sieur Fauchelevant, grey-haired patriarch, patron saint to every poor person who came across his beneficent path, loving father, prize-winning gardener, paragon of virtue and escaped convict was staring.  
The rotund apple of a man bobbing before him with a paper clutched in one over-sized perfumed hand seemed unaware of his victim's sudden dead silence.  
If he had been the observant type he would have noticed a blank paleness stealing across Fauchelevant's features. A kind of disbelieving shock accompanied by a glassy stare that would have made the smelliest dead cod proud.  
"….one would suppose that a poor fisherman would be able to pursue his picturesque and romantic task without the indignity of state official's bodies turning up in his path. Really, M. Fauchelevant! I have a mind to write to the paper about this,,,'  
Fauchelevant nodded vaguely. "He must have already been mad…" he said. "After all, he let me go." He nodded to the little man with the air of one who has summed up matters quite to his satisfaction, and walked briskly away.

xxxxx

Valjean walked back to his house with a brisk, un-hurried stride. He even hummed a little, something he had not done for many months. He took the steps two at a time, surprised Cosette pretending to dust in the hallway, and breezed through into the kitchen where he set about gathering together vegetables for lunch.  
Five potatoes. –mmmhmmm- Two onions. –pompompom- three bunches of oregano –diddlepom- and a couple of bright orange carrots.  
It was true then, he thought to himself calmly. It was all over. Finally.  
He began to chop, the blade of the knife making an easy rhythmical noise against the chopping board.  
And he wasn't distressed at all. Why should he be? Nothing to do with him –Pompompom-  
Pot. Water. Vegetables.  
More chopping.  
Nothing at all to do with him. Just madness in the night and a bridge coming together in the inexorable way these things have.  
More chopping.  
Something large and wet dropped onto the chopping board.  
"Papa!" Cosette… in the doorway. More chopping. Something else splashed on the board. Was there a leak in the roof? "You're… crying!"  
Ah. That was it. Valjean half-turned and offered her a reassuring smile. "It's nothing my dear. Just these onions."  
Perhaps it was something in his face, for Cosette nodded and left the room. She didn't even pause to point out that the chopping board was covered in the mutilated remains of five perfectly healthy potatoes.

xxxxxx

When had it sunk in? Valjean didn't know. For a while, he'd tried to believe that he was relieved. That he'd only been out looking for the Inspector to end the horrible sense of apprehension hovering over him like a flaming sword.  
But somehow his thoughts kept on returning to _that night_. And the idea of the Inspector disappearing from his doorstep to reappear in the Seinne terrified him.  
He paced the floorboards that evening, up and down and up again, trying to understand why he couldn't sleep for dreams of drowning bodies. Trying to work out why the words 'public servant… irreproachable record… Point au Change…' revolved in his head over and over again.  
Three times he returned to bed, swearing that he had finished with it. No more… I am free! Why argue?  
Three times he found himself on his feet again, pacing.  
Why? What could have driven the inspector from the house of the man he had so relentlessly pursued and sent him tumbling towards the Seinne? How did that happen?  
Valjean knew many people who were possible suicides. He knew a few more who would do the world a great favour by taking a late-night stroll and bath. But of all the people in France, the one man who was least likely was surely Javert.  
His head hurt.  
"Putain de merde." Valjean realized he was grinding his teeth. "What the hell were you thinking??" A small voice at the back of his head pointed out nervously that it wasn't a fantastic idea to swear at the Inspector. Another smaller voice added that it didn't think Valjean should call Javert 'tu' either.  
Valjean ignored them. After spending more time chained to a bench in Toulon than he cared to remember, he had become intimately acquainted with his inner voices… his demons and his angels. He had never been able to turn them off again, but sometimes…  
Just sometimes, they weren't worth listening to.  
"Javert?" He planted his feet and glared up at the ceiling. "What the bloody hell were you thinking??"  
He never knew where it came from, but at that moment he saw in his minds eye the thin shadow he'd fought so long to avoid. That rough charcoal sketch, only half done by an artist in too much of a hurry, eyes and chin the only details treated with care. The head seemed to be turned in his direction, and suddenly Valjean knew that every half-formed suspicion was true.  
It had been because of him.  
Surprisingly, his first reaction, the first feeling that chased after the shock was pure fury. How dared Javert do this to him?? How _dared_ he shirk his responsibilities and leave all the guilt to fall on Valjean's shoulders? The insufferable _nerve_ of the man!  
He had done it on purpose. Yes, Valjean could see it now. Javert was sitting somewhere in hell - or possibly in heaven, he grudgingly allowed – chuckling at the ultimate trick he'd played on his old foe. The trump card that no one could beat.  
"You just **had** to win, didn't you?" Valjean shouted furiously, not really caring whether Cosette heard him or not. His voice had reverted to the old burr, deserting his carefully polished accents for its home country. "You **had** to have the last laugh! Couldn't let me be, no, you had to go one better and leave me with all the guilt! You calculating _bastard!_"  
Every imprecation he knew, he flung Javert that night. Patiently and methodically he covered the Inspector's parentage, occupation, personal defects, and sexuality. His voice rose and fell again, sometimes booming like the thunder and then hissing like an over-excited teapot.  
Finally he stopped, his chest heaving madly. "Damn you, Javert." His voice was reduced to a whisper. "Damn you." He slumped to the floor, exhausted.  
The thought entered his mind that one day he would have to try to remember what he had said so he could confess it to the priest. No doubt his conscience would help… sometime after midnight for a week.  
It was all the Inspector's fault, anyway.  
In the darkness of his room, Valjean was surprised to realize that he really was angry. After everything he had done for the stupid big …. – his mind bit it's tongue out of a sense of economy. No need to bother the priest any more than he was already going to – it was the height of ingratitude to then pass all the responsibility back onto Valjean's shoulders while the Inspector swanned merrily off into the afterlife!  
Just for once Valjean had been looking forward to ending it, finishing the loose ends of his life and making good all his wrongs. He hadn't _wanted_ to return to prison… but he had wanted peace. It had been a long time since he had known peace.  
And Javert had to ruin it all. Instead of the knowledge that he had finished his tasks, Valjean was going to be left with the guilt of his pursuer's death on his conscience.  
Valjean snatched a half-empty cup off the floor and flung it at the wall. As the murky brown liquid slowly dribbled down the whitewash, a thought dawned on him, sudden and stunning in clarity.  
"My God. That's what I did to him!"


	5. Purgatory With Company

And here we are! My apologies for the hiatus.

I don't own Hugo or Les Mis, and I can only claim to own a shred of Javert's overcoat and a wisp of Valjean's beard.

xxxxxx

Why had it taken him so long to realize it? Valjean didn't know. Many terrified and angry theories had spun themselves into being inside his admittedly over-heated brain that night. He had even wondered for one mad second whether this was all some fantastic practical joke on the Inspector's part. One day when he had finally relaxed his guard, a large hand would wrap itself around his arm and…

But somewhere in between the whitewash and the blue coffee mug splinters, he recognized the truth. By forcing his surrender on Javert, he had as good as given up all responsibility for his own existence. All he had been thinking about… in a weary bone-exhausted sort of way, had been that it was finally over.

At last he would not have to run any more. He had thought that it was what Javert wanted, that by giving himself up unconditionally, he would make them both happy.

Well, maybe happy was stretching the point a little. He doubted he would have been _happy_ cooped up behind bars again. No,far from it. But there would have been a delicious sort of ironic sense of fulfillment about the whole thing.

And he'd been so absorbed in thinking about his own fate that he hadn't realised what is was he was forcing the Inspector to do. Bon Nuit, M. Inspectuer! How are you? Here… I know I just saved your life and all that, but how about you take the full responsibility for my existence on this earth, neh? Don't worry, I won't make a move to help myself either way. Let it all be your decision.

No surprise, really, that Javert had declined with a tip of his hat and spun the responsibility neatly back. I don't want it, Jack, you have it! All it had taken was a jump.

One little jump.

Valjean buried his head in his hands, and wept. For himself, For Cosette. For all the mad crazy people in Paris. And most of all for a lost lone policeman at the Seinne and the decision he had made.

xxx

It was growing dark. Valjean massaged a crick out of his neck slowly, and glanced around the graveyard. Things looked so different after dark. If you were… oh… built like a horse with the strength to match, and therefore didn't need to worry about whatever criminals might and probably were lurking in the rancid shadows, then night-time in Paris was quite lovely.

He always enjoyed it for the clarity it bought. Without the golden hues of sunlight to gild the good and uncover the bad, everything seemed much more equal.

"I am sorry, my friend. I must be going." He offered the grave a nod, and could almost summon the energy to be amused when the wind whispered through the branches of the tree in reply. "I will see you next time. Don't worry, I won't be late again."

His knees popped and groaned alarmingly as he rose and stretched. One of these days, he would just stop working like the little tin doll a charitable lady had given Cosette so many years ago. Which name had that been under? And which house…?

Too hard to remember. The lies twisted together so many times that it was a wonder he could remember his real name, let alone his past. Thank God the lies had finally stopped. Even Cosette… well, he didn't have to even lie to her any more.

It was a relief, in some ways. For the first time in years he had been able to go to confessional without harassing the priest with another long list of his untruths. One more sin dispensed with, only about a thousand more to go. With any luck he might make it to purgatory relatively unscathed.

A thought arrested him, and he stood still under the darkening shadow of the tree. What if that was where Javert was? It was a new thought, and somehow not unwelcome. In the back of his mind, he had always vaguely presumed that a dead Javert would be very like a live one. He wasn't sure if God had a police force, but if He didn't, then Jean knew for a fact that He would do as soon as Javert reached Heaven.

But what if…?

Valjean huffed into the night air, the stale air doing its best to blow away the stifling darkness. "That… that could be interesting, Inspector. I wonder what the afterlife would be like with you in it."

Better. Not so… well… lonely. Loneliness swamped his days now. Even had Cosette not – a familiar lump rose in his throat as his mind treacherously conjured an image of her the last time he had seen her. The very last time. Dressed in blue, and smiling up at him, her eyes sparkling with mischief and affection. Her small hand clasped tightly around his. For the last time.

He swallowed, and rubbed a hand against his chest. It ached sometimes, probably the cold. Or maybe his age creeping up on him.

It had been lonely, yes. He'd found himself walking 'there' every day, his feet refusing to listen to reason until he came too close. And then the raw fear that his longing for her company would overwhelm him and drag him forcibly to her side made him turn around and return home. Foolish, yes. But then, he was a foolish old man now. He knew that everyone laughed at him and his silly daily walk, and his drab old clothes.

It didn't matter. But Valjean knew somehow that it wouldn't have been much better if things had not ended this way. What if he hadn't told the lawyer boy the truth? He'd have been living with them now, stuck in the stuffy old house with the eccentric old man – so embroidered by his history and rank that he dripped with purple and gold – and surrounded by people he barely knew and the lies he had told them. It would have killed him too.

No. With Javert had died the last of his old peers and acquaintances. The last person who knew the real man behind the beard, so to speak. Without him, all that existed of Valjean was the carefully constructed mask that everyone saw. No one else could possibly know, could possibly begin to understand where he had come from and how far he had travelled to become the man he was.

Either way, it would have been lonely. Maybe that was why he kept coming back here, almost as often as he walked towards the Pontmercy house.

He felt he could be real here. The real Jean Valjean without all the masks and pretensions he had to assume for everyone else. After all, the inspector already knew the worst about him. Very little he could do that would shock the man.

There had been one time, of course. One time just after the last ever visit with Cosette. The pain had been bad, wrenching at his heart instead of the never-ending ache that it was now. He had stumbled his way here, to this grave, and tried to make pleasant conversation about the weather. But it hadn't lasted. He'd choked on his false pleasantry until he was sick to death of it, and had exploded at the inoffensive grave in front of him. Railed at Javert for chasing him, driving him away from his daughter, forcing him into this situation, haunting him…

It hadn't been fair. But – well – things had gone dead silent, even the wind and the trees not making a sound. And it had occurred to him, through the middle of his anger and his hurt and his tears, that just maybe _that_ would have shocked Javert. If he had been alive to see it.

Valjean shook his head sharply and dispelled the thoughts. His choices were made, and he would live with them. Or die with them. That was life.

Perhaps, though… he nodded one last time towards the grave and turned on his heel. Perhaps an afterlife in the company of the Inspector wouldn't be such a bad way to spend eternity.


	6. Spiders on the Ceiling

Here's the latest chapter. For those of you who were wondering when I'll bring this rambling little tale to its final end... there's at least one more chapter planned. I do not own Les Miserables, Javert (sobs), Marius, or Cosette. Enjoy, and please forgive the long breaks in between. My writing life is very hectic at the moment. Too much to write.

xxxx xxxx

The young couple were very engrossed in their mourning. The man stood stiffly upright, as though he felt somehow uncomfortable even now. As though he were halfway between venerating the dead man and edging respectfully but carefully away. The young woman, however, spent her grief in heaving sobs over the plain stone.

Marius had been to far too many graveyards in the past months. He had grown to despise the places, shivering in mixed loathing and dread at the proximity of the soul-lessness of the grey stones. It was the thought of reducing a life down to a handful of words on a piece of rock which outraged him. His friends… his comrades… his _gods_… had been so much more than just a trite phrase in the passage of life.

If he had been able, he would have erected a stature for each of them, some grand figure of courage to guard their earthly remains and remind the people that sometimes angels _did_ come to earth. Something better than what they had.

But at least they had their names, their identities scribed down in rock! M'sieur Valjean had nothing, barely even a small stone marker in the poorest section of the graveyard. Why had he specified this particular tree, Marius wondered absently.

Then he cursed himself for straying from the mission in hand. It had been only a very few days since the gentleman, the saint… the…

He ran out of magnificent words and floundered for a moment, trying to dredge something out of his mainly political vocabulary that would fit with his enigmatic savior. God knew he wished he could have done more… could have guessed the man's bizarre secret and begged him, no _forced_ him to return to their home and let himself live out the rest of his years being lavished with all the respect and love he deserved!

A chill wind rustled through the tree for the third time that day, and whisked his hat off and onto the ground. Marius picked it up and dusted it off. Strange that Cosette's fantastically wide-brimmed hat seemed significantly un-touched by the wind, while his own…

Oh well.

He sighed, and wondered whether Cosette would mind very much if he were to pat her shoulder. She had been very quiet for the past few days. Not exactly cold. Marius doubted it was possible for his beloved angel to be cold. Marius had a good deal left to learn about women.

But she had been cool, remote, and there had been a strange look in her eyes when she met his gaze across the dinner table. He got the uncomfortable feeling that she was trying hard to restrain what she considered to be unladylike emotions.

The wind whistled down his collar, and Marius had the uncomfortable feeling that highly unfriendly eyes were staring at him from somewhere – somewhere….

There was a shadow behind the tree. It – or rather, he – had spent a good deal of time around this particular tree, and found it familiar. Familiar things were few and far between, fewer now. But – maybe not for long, hmm?

He folded his arms again and watched the lawyer-pup shuffle his feet and glance nervously over his shoulder. Know I'm watching you, boy? Good. Well, here's a little piece of advice, neh? Completely free, no payment required. Take care of the girl, because if you don't, I will be there. Even if he isn't.

It was, the spectre thought, a fitting cycle of duties. Valjean had started with the child all those years ago, and now he would watch her in his turn. A little tip of the hat to a departed friend, neh?

Hopefully not quite as departed as all that, but you never knew which way the fates were going to turn. They had a funny habit of twisting around and biting you on the arse.

He grimaced and thought about sending the lawyer-boy's hat on another flight. It was amusing how he tried to glance apologetically at both the grave and his wife while retrieving it. However, before he could _quite_ make up his mind whether four times in one visit would be perhaps slightly too repetitive - being dead was no excuse to become repetitive, after all – the girl got up and rubbed her eyes.

"I'm going back, now, father. You won't mind being alone for a little while? You hear? I'm calling you 'tu' again, and 'father'. Marius doesn't mind at all." She shot her husband a look that indicated that he'd better _not_ mind. Hmm. Trouble in paradise, maybe? She set a small posy from her hair down on the ground near the stone, and kissed her hand. "I'll be back soon. Ever so soon. I'll visit every day, just like we used to…" she broke off and had to turn away. Without waiting to see if the lawyer-boy was following, she stumbled off towards the road, her pale-blue skirts swishing through the dew-damp grass.

The boy hesitated.

Go on, you dinlo. She's mad enough at you already. With, might I add, damn good reason. Ever stop to think that maybe lying to your wife was not the brightest of ideas? Aeh… what's the use? Like communicating with a bloody brick wall.

Suddenly, the lawyer-boy knelt down on the grass and produce a bit of chalk from the recesses of his pockets. After checking carefully over both shoulders, he scribbled something down on the gravestone. Then he got to his feet, dusted down his knees, and hurried after his wife. Hopefully, if the lad had _any_ sense, he would spend the next few hours apologizing.

But what in hell's name had he written?

The spectre stalked around the tree and bent over the gravestone, pursing his lips. Dieu. What a load of sentimental tripe. Bluebirds and daisies and the promise of springtime and truly _excessive_ gushing about Valjean's saintly unspotted life and god-like bravery.

It would _not_ do for Jack to come waltzing out of his tomb and find this little mess scribbled all over his grave. Probably set him back several hundred years right at the start.

Of course, finding Valjean visiting _his_ grave had nearly done the exact same thing to him…

No matter.

Inspector Javert swiped at the stone irritably, and was mildly pleased when the chalk came away. No matter how many times he did it, he was always filled with an irrational surge of glee when he managed to manipulate something in the corporeal realm.

Once he'd been pleased if he managed to track down a group of violent criminals before they could commit another crime.

Now he was perfectly happy if he could smudge away chalk with his sleeve.

Funny how priorities change.

Javert rocked back on his heels and fished around in his pocket. String… what had he wanted that for again? Several scraps of paper with nigh-on illegible notes 'seventy-six acorns' 'spiders in the ceiling, this one' and 'the horses are running'. Damned if he knew what any of them had meant. One day he would finally rid himself of the infuriating tendency of writing notes to himself in a code that no longer made any sense several hours later.

A piece of cloth from an old overcoat. A handful of small change. The peel from an orange. Two very small nuts, which he would probably have gotten around to eating someday. A dusting of wood shavings… now _where_ had he picked that up?? Ah. A piece of chalk.

Javert tugged ruminatively on his nose. Then, concentrating very hard on making the semi-spectre chalk write on the not-spectre-at-all-thank-you gravestone, he scrawled something as neatly as he could.

It took some time. When he was finally satisfied, he got up brusquely and made a face.

"You fool, Valjean."

There was no answer, but then it was too early for that. Maybe… if the fates decided to restain from arse-biting _just this once_, he would be lucky. But not for another three days. Three and a half days to be precise.

Damn, but he was bored.

With a slight inclination of his head, Javert turned on his heel and wandered off towards the edges of the cemetery. He wasn't overly concerned with what Marius would think when he found his gushing phrases replaced with an oddly worded little verse… a very strange verse indeed.


	7. Old Animosities

In Memorium

Chapter Seven

It was dark, and dusty. His nostrils flared as he dragged in a sudden, shuddering breath. That _smell…_ sweet and musty, like clothes that had been kept in an enclosed damp space for too long, like sweat and decay. Like pressed Sunday clothes and too much starch.

Valjean wasn't to know, but he was smelling the potpourri of death.

His death, to be completely exact.

He dragged in another lungful of musty air and blinked. Last thing he remembered was… what was it now? He had been cold for so many months. And he had been weak – _him_, the Jack of Toulon. Weak as a child and refusing to eat his potatoes…

Cosette! She had been – but no. No that could not be. Surely it was the ramblings of an old man's mind. Why was it so dark in here? And so confined? What _was_ that smell?

For the first time in many months, Valjean felt a sudden rush of panic. He had hated enclosed spaces for a very long time. Ever since – well, ever since the incident with Fauchelevant and the cemetery. The sensation of being buried alive. Buried – Oh mon dieu!

Valjean looked up at the underside of a coffin's lid, and screamed, a raw, animal cry of panic. Not again. By God Himself, not again! He lashed out, clawing and hitting at the confining wood, flailing in a blind panic. He had to get out – had to get free. By God, they wouldn't stick him in here again!

Suddenly he could feel a crumbling of dry earth – and then his face was full of mud and dirt. A nightmare from the bad times in Toulon swept over him. Remembered pain, his fear of the cell, his longing for the clean fresh air of his woods, and then the nightmarish grey men which had grabbed him up and broken him into dust.

He'd tried to escape after that nightmare. It had terrified him.

It terrified him again now. The men seemed to clutch at him with their hands, grasping at his clothing, pressing him down into the mud.

Jean Valjean didn't notice his hands passing through the wood and dirt. He didn't notice the fresh air washing over his face as he clambered out of the ground, arms and legs flailing like a drowning man. He was choking with remembered fear, shivering and hysterical. Forces seemed to press down on his chest with the weight of the devil himself. He had ceased to be Valjean – ceased to exist beyond the fear. One hand grasped something cold and hard and clung to it for dear life.

Cold – a stone. A stone, grass… a tree? Darkness and fresh, oh bon dieu… rain. Sweet rain.

Jean Valjean raised his head and glanced feverishly around. It was dark and cold. Several stars guttered in the sky, candles about to blow out in the freezing winds. A light rain was falling, pattering over the ground… and the stones…

There were so many stones.

The fear that had been so close to passing away from Valjean returned so sharply that he choked on it. The graveyard? What was he doing in the graveyard at night?

"Jack?"

A voice from behind him. A – familiar voice. Jean Valjean could live a thousand years and not forget that voice. He turned slowly, and looked up into the thin, gaunt face of Inspector Javert.

"Well?" The Inspector leaned forwards ever so slightly, his face made menacing by the cold light of a stray moonbeam. "What have you got to say for yourself, then?"

Jean spluttered, hiccoughed, and then – to his acute embarrassment – burst into tears.

Meeting one's dead arch-nemesis in a graveyard can sometimes have that effect.

xxxx

Javert stared. It had been a surprise to feel the unmistakable tingling sensation which always accompanied the waking of a new ghost. Valjean was the only one who had been interred for anywhere near the three weeks necessary for the beaurocrats to work out the Heaven/Hell/Purgatory paperwork and come to their decision.

Perhaps he _shouldn't_ have been surprised, but he had been rather expecting Saint Valjean to make the journey to the Pearly Gates (complete with their sickeningly cheerful cherubim and plenty of golden harps) without any trouble. He'd ticked all the boxes, hadn't he? Fed the poor, been kind to children, paid his tithe to the church. Presumably the old man had also gone to confessional… Javert would have given his year's salary to have had the chance to sit in on a few of those sessions.

'Bless me father, for I have sinned. I've lied to my adopted daughter and an entire nunnery.'

That would have been a good one.

Still, though it was a surprise – it was far from an unpleasant one. Javert had not asked to be a ghost, and – if given a choice – would have happily opted for Hell over Purgatory. Swanning around a Paris filled with the departed and the living without a soul – hah – to communicate with had been inhumanly boring.

Then Valjean had started visiting his grave. It had been amusing at first – and then fascinating. After the old man had died, Javert had realized that death without Valjean was a bleak and uninteresting prospect.

But now?

Jean Valjean was weeping hysterically on his own grave. He seemed terrified – scared out of his wits and shaking like a criminal caught without an alibi.

He huffed in irritation, and knelt down at Valjean's side. "I am not here to hurt you, gadzo."

No response.

"You're dead. It's a little out of my jurisdiction."

No response. If anything, the shaking grew worse.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Javert knew that there was an obvious remedy. He'd seen other people do it often enough at the Prefecture. Simple, no?

Javert checked cautiously over both shoulders. The graveyard was still and silent – black as the prefect's conscience and twice as cold as his heart. Stiffly, he reached out and placed an arm around Valjean's shoulders, pulling the older man into an awkward resemblance of a hug.

The sobbing stopped. Javert had the feeling this was from pure shock more than anything else.

How long was one meant to hold on for? Was five minutes enough?

"I – I'm dead?"

"Oui."

"You're dead?"

"Oui." These questions were easy. Javert wondered if he could get up now. Oddly, Valjean seemed to be – well – clinging. Was this normal?

"Why – what… where?"

"You're a ghost. This is purgatory. Congratulations."

There was a pause. Then Valjean rocked back on his heels and blinked at his surroundings. "Why are _you_ in Purgatory?"

The tone, Javert decided as he got to his feet and straightened his jacket, was far from insulting. Therefore, he didn't use one of the two-hundred-and-fifty-three replies that he had used when asked said question in varying tones of disgusted horror by the other inhabitants of the non-corporal world. "I could ask you the same thing, Jack."

Valjean shuddered, and got slowly to his feet. "How long have I been dead?"

The interrogator in Javert wanted to latch onto the obvious subject change, but he shrugged it off. "Three weeks." He thought for a minute, and then added stiffly, "Your daughter comes by every day. The flowers are from her."

"Oh."

A silence filled the air. There was a lot to say, and absolutely no way to say it. Both men stood and looked studiously at the sky.

"Javert…"

"Oui?"

Valjean sighed. He seemed to have overcome his hysteria – finally. "Is there a police force in Purgatory?"

"Police?" Javert raised an eyebrow. "No."

"Ah. Good."

The corners of Javert's mouth twitched up. "I suppose I could form one, if you think you'll miss us."

"That's kind of you, but I will survive the loss," Valjean said solemnly. "What does one do when one is a ghost?"

"Well – death isn't full of excitement and glory. I have yet to see any angels with fiery swords, or interesting demons. However…"

"Oui?"

"There _is_ a wineshop."

Valjean's eyebrows rose. "A _wineshop?"_

"Yes." Javert dusted off his hat, which he had been carrying under one arm, and put it on. "The wine is passable. The company is abominable. It will actually improve with your presence, Jack. "

"My word. It must be bad."

Valjean was grinning. Javert could not remember ever having seen the old reprobate grin before. It was a pleasant change. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a small snuffbox. It was empty.

Habits died hard. Even when one was a ghost. He pushed it back into his over-flowing pockets, made a mental note to sort them out sometime, and started to walk out of the graveyard. He had moved three steps before he realized Valjean had not moved.

"Coming?"

Valjean glanced up, and then nodded. "Coming."

It was a cold night, and the stars were shining dimly in the sky. It was a night for spirits and ghosts to walk the earth. It was a night for haunting, and drinking wine. A night when old friendships might get broken, and old animosities might just have a chance to heal.

It was a good night.

The End


End file.
